


Progression

by Fumm95



Series: Annaliese Cousland [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arranged Marriage, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4601319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fumm95/pseuds/Fumm95
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annaliese Cousland was sent with her father’s army to Ostagar instead of Fergus, and is thus the only Cousland who survives the slaughter by Howe’s men. Following the Fifth Blight, she has a life to rebuild, made all the more difficult by an impending political marriage to King Alistair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Progression

Castle Cousland was too quiet.

Annaliese would have laughed at the thought had she been able to laugh. When was the last time she had laughed, the last time she could even smile, sincere instead of the fake thing she had plastered to her face during the formal ceremonies, the endless platitudes? The adulation and deference to a title that she didn’t want, that she would give up in a heartbeat if it meant she could bring her family back. And Maker, the well-meaning comments about how lucky she was to have been sent to Ostagar, and then been out scouting during the battle itself… Did nobody realize how much of a fluke it was that she had survived, that it was some twist of fate which had nothing to do with her? That, in the end, she had abandoned her home when her people needed her?

Her thoughts chased through her mind, noisy and overwhelming, only accented by the eerily loud sound of her boots against the stone floor, at once familiar and foreign. With every step, she half-expected to find the serving maids gossiping away from the watchful eye of the cook, or Nan herself scolding the world at large, as she always did. Oren playing with her eternally loyal Caerad. Her throat burned with tears that were still unshed, barely held at bay, as she continued to explore. As she found the corner that Ser Gilmore liked to frequent. As she passed the garden that her mother had spent years cultivating.

As memories danced in the edges of her vision, images she would never again see.

Someone had been by, she noted numbly. The halls were cleared of all rubble and… other things, an the stone floors scrubbed cleaner than she had ever seen them. It made the entire scene surreal, almost dream-like, to not have any evidence of what had past. But even the knowledge that she would never wake up from the waking nightmare was better than the prospect of having to deal with the direct aftermaths of Rendon Howe’s treachery, of having to fix up the castle herself, to clean up and dispose of all of the bodies. Maker, she was sure even fighting the darkspawn with the rest of her family’s - now _her_ \- men, watching the mutilated, grotesque figures fall, cut to pieces, watching her _people_ succumb to injuries and darkspawn blood, would not have been enough to prepare her for finding her entire family dead.

She sighed, making a mental note to commend whoever had taken care of it for her, ignoring the voice in her head, reminding her of how unready she was. Fergus had always been the Cousland set to inherit Highever, which had allowed her time to train. Which, ironically, was the only reason she had gone with the rest of her father’s men, the only reason she had survived.

As she passed by the treasury, her eyes fell on the crest, somehow still hanging on the wall, and her throat tightened as her mother’s soft voice chimed through her memory. “Grace under adversity and courage above fear, my dear,” Teyrna Eleanor had always reminded her, gentle and proper in her chastisement. Always gentle and proper, even in her last moments, if the reassurances from the other nobles were to be believed. How ironic it was that only the new king, the sole individual there who had actually spoken to Rendon Howe, said nothing. Only watched her with eyes that were sympathetic, almost unnervingly so.

“Your ladyship?” Ser Roland’s voice was hesitant and, in spite of herself, Annaliese found herself glancing about for Lady Eleanor before she recalled. If the discomfort on her captain’s face was any indication, she was not the only person to feel as though they were intruding upon memories and ghosts.

But she was the new Teyrna now, and she had a legacy to uphold. “We are Couslands and we do what must be done.” She could almost hear her mother’s warm approval as she straightened, setting her shoulders back with determination, and turned to her ever loyal captain, allowing the thoughts of planning, of the _future_ , to take hold and distract her, if only temporarily, from the pains of the past.

* * *

_[A letter from Highever to Storm Coast, written in neat but shaky script.]_

My dear Aunt Elizabeth,

I expect that this letter may come as a surprise; given the state of Ferelden, I cannot believe that many messages have made it through the hordes of darkspawn to reach the Storm Coast, but I hope now that with the end of the Fifth Blight, this may reach you without too much delay.

I do not know how much you have heard from the capital, but I must first impart some grave news. Any rumors that you may have heard about Rendon Howe’s treachery are true. He turned upon our family in the middle of the night, after Father sent me off with the majority of our soldiers to aid the king at Ostagar, and there were not enough remaining to hold back Howe’s men. Mother, Father, Fergus, Oriana, and Oren are all gone.

Before you ask, I have already inquired to the state of the scoundrel I once thought of as an uncle. The elf they are calling the Hero of Ferelden, who gave her life to end the Fifth Blight, dealt with him before I was able to find him myself. The new king himself has reassured me that Howe was slain and, may Andraste forgive me for the thought, but I can only hope that she made him suffer before dealing him the final blow.

But enough of such sad things. I mentioned the new king earlier. I do not know how much you are aware of the events during the Blight, but during the Battle of Ostagar, Teyrn Loghain turned his back on the king and the Grey Wardens, leaving King Cailan to die, along with most of the other men and all but two of the Grey Wardens. From what I understand, he ignored the signal to attack and left the army there to be slaughtered, then declared himself regent. It was only by the Maker’s hand that I had been sent to scout in the Korcari Wilds myself and was not present. But more shockingly, one of the sole remaining Wardens turned out to be an illegitimate son of King Maric, and was made king at the Landsmeet, under the advice of the Hero, as rumors say, while Queen Anora was made to swear fealty to him.

I must confess that I did not write solely to impart such news and idle gossip, however. I find I must also beg for your wise counsel. I fear I was never prepared to find myself in charge of such responsibilities so soon, and was never expecting to be ruling a teyrnir. Mother was always preoccupied with Fergus and more recently, finding me a husband, and I must admit to being less than studious in her lessons. If you have any words of wisdom, any advice, I would find myself forever in your debt.

Please give my kisses to Uncle William, Edmund, Jonathan, and Emma.

Your loving niece,

_Annaliese Cousland_

Teyrna of Highever

* * *

As she had expected, restoring of Highever was a complicated process. Though Castle Cousland and its surrounding lands themselves remained generally untouched, the household and possessions were a different matter altogether. From the sheer amount of looting, she wondered whether it had all been done by Howe’s men, or whether common bandits and highwaymen had taken advantage of the chaos.

When she posed the question to Ser Roland, his only response had been a grimace and acknowledgement that it was likely a combination of the two. Naturally.

Still, rebuilding continued, slowly but steadily, made easier by the discovery that some of Howe’s men, while obeying their arl, had remained loyal to the teyrnir and had helped save various members of the household, including her old nurse-turned-housekeeper, in whose motherly embrace she found solace upon her arrival back at the castle, trembling as gentle arms cradled her.

“My sweet lass,” the woman crooned, and the warm familiarity of Morna’s voice was enough to bring her to tears. Tears of relief that at least some had survived the slaughter, of loss and sorrow held back for too long. For her people, her family. For herself.

As her sobs subsided, she discovered Morna was still murmuring words of comfort, her voice choking with tears of her own, and Annaliese tightened her arms around the woman, grateful that Ser Roland had shepherded everyone else away and stood far enough to give them privacy.

“Feelin’ better, dearie?”

She turned her face up to the woman, a genuine smile, the first in Maker-knew-how-long, tugging at her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Morna’s gaze was warm as Anna ducked the gentle swat aimed at her head, a hoarse laugh escaping from her throat. “None of that now, lassie,” she scolded. “Now, tell me, how has it been with only these rough soldiers keepin’ you company?”

When Roland protested faintly, she laughed again, feeling its warmth settling around her, echoing off of stone walls which didn’t feel quite as cold, lessening the stress which seemed a permanent part of her new life. As Morna and Ser Roland fell in step with her, she relaxed a little, bolstered by the strength of their unyielding support.

* * *

_[A letter found on the teyrna’s desk, still slightly damp from tears]_

My darling niece,

You cannot imagine the shock your uncle and I felt when we received your last letter. Your uncle has men in the army keeping us up to date with the latest news from the capital, though we have not heard from them in several weeks, when they wrote to tell us of the results of the Landsmeet. An illegitimate son who was raised as a commoner and is a Grey Warden becoming the new king? It sounds like something out of a fairytale, does it not?

But I digress. We had heard what happened at Highever last year, though there was no news that you had managed to escape the attack. There are no words to express the relief that we felt hearing from you. And while I must say that your missive was all that is good and proper for a teyrna, I know you, my dear girl, and I cannot imagine how you must be feeling after the chaos of the past year. You are so soft, so caring, my sweetling, that I worry you must be blaming yourself for what occurred, and I fear there may not be anyone to reassure you that it was not your fault.

There was nothing you could have done.

It was Rendon Howe’s choice and the blame for their deaths lies squarely upon him and him alone. Not you. Never you, my dear. I know you are already aware of this, but knowing and believing are two very different things and I also know it is hard to keep such logical reasoning in the wake of tragedy. I only ask that you remember this, and that your family would have wanted you to live. They would be so proud of you, would believe in you, as we are, and do.

In regards to your quest for advice, I offer this: Trust in your people. It is difficult to do so after what has happened, I understand, but they know what needs to be done, and will be your most stable support in the coming days. I also offer a suggestion. With everything settling back down and Edmund at an age where he must start taking more responsibilities for our own bannorn, if it would be convenient to you, I can stay at Highever for a while with little Emma, if only just to help you settle into your new role. I have complete faith in you, but I know from experience that having support, especially familial support, can be incredibly helpful in such trying times.

Let me know whether this arrangement would be agreeable to you, my dear girl. Your uncle, Ed, Jon, and Emma all send their love.

All of my love,

_Aunt Elizabeth_

Bann of Storm Coast

* * *

Annaliese was certain that some of her newer maids - daughters of the local families or from Howe’s former arling - were alarmed by the quick pace she set as she sought Morna, but she couldn’t help herself as she tore through the castle, the letter from her aunt clasped tightly in her grasp and Ser Roland, her apparently self-appointed new guard, trailing behind her. As it was, it was only her title which kept her from full-out sprinting in her excitement.

“What is it, lass?” Her housekeeper’s voice was amused and Anna bit back a laugh at the look of surprise on one young girl’s face at her lack of deference to the teyrna. The woman’s continued nurturing was a welcome break from the reverence bestowed upon her by the majority of her new household, including, much to her chagrin, those who had known her for her entire life. “Run along now, Robin,” the woman added, flapping her hands at the girl who didn’t look much older than ten, still staring with enough awe to make her feel slightly uncomfortable.

Blushing at being caught out, the girl curtseyed and scampered off, leaving Annaliese with a chuckling Morna, head shaking with a fond exasperation that she could recall from years past. “Well?” the woman demanded after a moment.

“Oh!” Grinning, she waved the letter at her housekeeper. “My aunt Elizabeth has offered to come and provide any assistance necessary in reorganizing the castle and keeping it running smoothly. I was hoping to accept, if it not too much trouble.”

“Aye, Lady Elizabeth is never any trouble. Tell her we’d be glad to have her. There’s plenty of room and it’s much too quiet.”

She beamed, throwing her arms around the woman in a moment of spontaneity, who grumbled though her pleased expression belied the feigned displeasure.

“Well, if we’ve got guests arriving, then there’s much to do in the meantime and you’ve an invitation to write. Away with ye!”

* * *

The morning of Aunt Elizabeth’s arrival dawned brightly, almost as though the sun itself was eagerly heralding the upcoming reunion. For Annaliese, awake since before dawn with the same giddy excitement that she remembered from her childhood, it was an auspicious sign, though the thought was not enough to prevent her from pacing the halls with nervous anticipation.

Still, even in her anxiety, she had to admit that Castle Cousland looked magnificent, a far cry from the ransacked fortress of only a few weeks prior, when she had first arrived home. Between her men, uncomplaining at the change in their duties from fighting and training to rebuilding, and the people recovered from Amaranthine, her home was slowly but surely returning to its former glory.

It took both Morna and Roland to ensure she didn’t exhaust herself completely by noon and had something to eat as she wandered through the prepared rooms, the dining area, the kitchens. She could see the careful touches Morna had put into everything, the effort put into restoring the castle to its previous state, or the best that they could manage in a few short weeks. The wood shone, the silverware sparkled, and she didn’t recall the last time the floors looked so clean. They certainly never put forth that much effort whenever Arl Howe visited.

Shaking her head, Annaliese carefully cut off that thought. It was a day for new beginnings, for the future, not for living in the past and cursing the name of someone who was dead and doubtless had already received his punishment at the hands of the Maker. There were so many better things to dwell upon, to anticipate, for what was yet to come for Highever and for herself.

After realizing that she had walked the same path at least three times, she headed for the gate. Gone were the days when she could run out and meet the arrivals out on the road, as she and Fergus had done when they were both young, but the excitement in her heart for the arrival of her aunt remained unchanged. It had been too long since she’d even written to her, let alone seen her.

As if on cue, the fanfare announcing the approach of a friendly carriage rang through the spring air and Annaliese nearly sprinted the remaining steps to the gate, heart racing with a combination of anticipation and nerves. Behind her, she could hear Morna’s teasing scolding but ignored it. Clanging metal on her other side told her Ser Roland was hot on her heels and she grinned at his loyalty.

The minutes before the carriage pulled into the courtyard felt like hours. Morna arrived, still walking sedately, and smirked as she and Roland panted for breath. Annaliese could almost hear her chiding tone. “What did I tell you, lass?”

Pulling a face in response, she turned her attention to the road leading up towards the castle, and her aunt’s carriage, slowly pulling into view. Almost before it came to a complete stop, the door opened, revealing a tall, auburn-haired woman carrying a squirming pink bundle who, when let down, immediately ran forward with a cry of “Cousin Anna!”

She laughed, dropping into a squat and allowing herself to get bowled over by the enthusiastic greeting. A harried-looking woman - her nurse, most likely - raced to intercept with an apologetic smile but she waved her off.

“Miss Emma! It does not do to run off like that, and she is Teyrna Annaliese now! I am sorry, Your Ladyship!”

Golden curls bounced as Emma grinned up at her. “Cousin Anna,” she repeated obstinately, blue eyes dancing with the impish smile.

“It’s not a problem,” Annaliese murmured before turning to the girl. “Now, you little rascal,” she scolded playfully, carefully lifting her to rest on her hip, ignoring the pang from memories of doing the same to her nephew. “You still remember me, huh?”

“Of course,” a familiar voice, full of good-humor and warmth, cut in. “She only asks about you every few days and studies your portrait every week, you know. Now, where is my greeting, scamp?”

“Aunt Elizabeth!” She beamed as she moved to embrace the woman with her free arm. “I thought sending Emma was your form of a greeting.”

Laughter rang out over the stone walls. “Such impudence, and from the teyrna too! Ahhh, Morna! Has she always been like this?”

Her housekeeper’s sly smirk was enough to tell Annaliese that they would be sharing stories for hours and she turned to organize the transport of her aunt’s trunks to their prepared rooms, still holding Emma up with one arm.

Enthusiastic chatter filled the halls of the castle as they moved and she grinned as Emma, let back down once she insisted she wished to explore, ran to and fro, refilling the empty spaces with life. She was home.

* * *

_[A letter found on Lady Elizabeth’s desk, on expensive parchment and bearing the royal insignia]_

My dear Lady Elizabeth,

It has been far too long since I have last received a missive from you! I was relieved to hear that you and your family at Storm Coast weathered the Blight without too much trouble. And pray, accept my condolences for your sister and her family. What Rendon Howe did was cowardly and treacherous, and I am certain the Maker has dealt him a fitting retribution.

I hope the new teyrna is settling in well; she seemed to be extremely capable when we last met, and will doubtless flourish under your guidance.

As I am sure you have heard, I am in a similar position at the moment as King Alistair’s adviser following the events which befell Redcliffe. He is yet inexperienced, but determined to do well by his people, and in memory of his friend, the elf Mahariel, which the people have dubbed “The Hero of Ferelden.”

However, I fear there may be unrest yet to come, and Alistair is mostly untested, and a Grey Warden. He does not tell me much about the order, save that he will likely die young and will thus need an heir soon. In light of such news, which I must ask you to keep to yourself for fear that it could instigate trouble, I write with more intent than simply reaching out to an old friend.

Though it is still early to consider such things, I believe an alliance between King Alistair and your niece would provide great stability to the country. While the lords of the Landsmeet have accepted that Alistair is Maric’s illegitimate son, marrying the last remaining Cousland and the teyrna of Highever would provide great legitimacy to his position, and elevate your niece to Queen, as well as keep our throne away from Orlais or other countries which the people may see as usurpers. Additionally, I have every reason to believe that she and King Alistair may complement each other very well and find happiness in such a union.

Pray, send my thoughts to your family, and I would be greatly obliged if you would discuss this matter with your niece, should the time seem appropriate.

Yours sincerely,

_Eamon Guerrin_

Adviser to His Royal Highness, King Alistair of Ferelden

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multichapter fic, and I'm a pretty slow writer, so my apologies ahead of time when updates take forever.
> 
> Some of the setting was inspired by the lovely Ivy_Adair.


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